


love, close your eyes, there are stories to tell

by the_prose_in_which_the_filth_dwells (the_one_in_which_the_filth_dwells)



Series: we're the last americans [4]
Category: American Murder Song - Various (Album)
Genre: Cain Knows What's Up, M/M, Storm Gets What He Wants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2020-03-05 08:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18824506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_one_in_which_the_filth_dwells/pseuds/the_prose_in_which_the_filth_dwells
Summary: “Do you think the storm will let up?” Tender tried, making an attempt at conversation.Storm looked up at Tender, grinning, his curly hair framing his head like a mane. Tender was suddenly reminded of a lion— a self assured, proud king lying comfortably atop his hunting trophies.“I never will, darling Tender.”





	1. blow out the candle and go to sleep

**Author's Note:**

> In which Cain is petty, Storm knows what he wants, and Tender is a useless gay but doesn't know it yet.

Traveling aboard the Black Wagon was comfortable now, even if the roof leaked when either of them annoyed Cain too much. Storm was currently the target of his ire after he made up one too many teasing ditties about Cain’s terrible sense of humor. 

“This just proves me right,” Storm remarked as he slid a bucket under where his hammock used to hang. Rain was pouring steadily outside, so Cain had molded a perfect hole in the roof above Storm’s spot. Tender was holding Storm’s hammock, trying to figure out where it could be hung in the meantime. He had already wrung it out, for it was saturated beyond hope when the two of them finally investigated the dripping sounds from the loft. 

“He is a bit of a bastard,” Tender admitted, since Cain was outside and out of earshot. Funnily enough, he didn’t mind  _ actual _ storms and was fine driving the Nightmares through the rain. They were strong enough to disregard muddy roads, and the wheels were sturdy enough to handle it. 

Storm tittered as thunder rumbled outside. “I don’t think he would hate me such if he lightened up every once in a while.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Tender defended, feeling like he needed to. Storm looked to him and smiled, not needing anything more to call him out on the lie. Tender sighed.

“If it makes you feel better, I bet he would let it rain on my hammock too.” 

“I wouldn’t put it past him.” Storm kicked off his boots, setting them by his (thankfully dry) guitar case. Then he sank down onto the furs covering the half of the loft that wasn’t taken up by hammocks. They were dry too, conveniently; ever since Cain changed the Wagon, they had been saving the hides of anything they shot to add to the pile. By now, there was enough cushioning to make it a decent bed. Not the worst place either of them had ever slept. Tender hovered awkwardly between the hammocks and the furs, watching Storm as he laid back and got comfortable. 

“Do you think the storm will let up?” Tender tried, making an attempt at conversation.

Storm looked up at Tender, grinning, his curly hair framing his head like a mane. Tender was suddenly reminded of a lion— a self assured, proud king lying comfortably atop his hunting trophies. 

“I never will, darling Tender.”

His throat worked, trying to formulate some response to no avail. Storm laughed, the dim light of the lantern making his canines gleam. Tender was astounded at how he suddenly felt pale in comparison to him. Storm was a predator, surely. How had he not realized before? 

“The water will drip onto your hammock if the wind blows right,” Storm continued. He shifted closer to the wall, making space. “It would make for a rude awakening.” 

“Cain would be furious if he came in to sleep and I was in his hammock,” Tender ventured. 

“I know,” Storm replied. He offered no further explanation, letting Tender draw whatever conclusions he wished. “Blow out the lantern.”

That part was easy. Tender circled around the furs where Storm laid, taking the lantern off its hook to extinguish the flame. The loft plunged into darkness, save for the occasional flash of lightning from outside. Tender put the lantern back and waited, taking time to deliberate under the pretense of letting his eyes adjust. There was a steady drip of water plopping into the bucket, distinct against the drumming of the rain outside. Storm didn’t speak. Had he fallen asleep already?

Tender toed off his boots, deciding to sleep in his hammock so Storm could sprawl comfortably. He had tiptoed past the furs and was about to clamber into his hammock when he heard Storm let out a gentle sigh. It was a delicate sound, like a caress on his skin. Tender’s resolve —which had been made of steel before he met Storm— crumbled. Careful not to step on any stray limbs, he settled down on the furs. Storm rolled onto his front, betraying that he wasn’t asleep after all.

“Good night, Tender.” Could he hear a smile in Storm’s voice? It was raining too hard for Tender to be certain.

“Good night,” he echoed, tentatively stretching out to get comfortable. His foot grazed Storm’s. He didn’t flinch, but Tender still drew it back. He was now rethinking the earlier observation that here wasn’t the worst place he had slept: it was a strange sort of agony to be beside Storm now. His guard was down, surrendered with the intent of slumber, and Tender almost felt like he shouldn’t be there. This close, at least, with him so oddly vulnerable. 

At the same time, though, Tender wanted to be closer. A protective ache was warring with his current turmoil, keeping him paralyzed where he was. Tender closed his eyes, body rigid, trying his best to focus on the storm outside rather than the one next to him. He already knew sleep would take a long time to come.

 

* * *

 

At some point, Tender turned his head to watch Storm’s back rise and fall. His breathing was even, peaceful. Lulling to watch. Surely he was asleep now, dreaming of music, lightning, (him?) whatever Mister Storms dreamed of. Any sort of rest felt distant for Tender now.

The rain started to slow sometime later. About then, Storm shifted. Tender froze, holding his breath. He didn’t seem to be awake, though. Storm rolled onto his side, one of his arms flopping out to land on Tender’s chest. Tender jumped, his skin suddenly alive. 

Storm exhaled, settling back down. Tender could feel his pulse through his wrist, beating next to his own heart. The rhythm was steady and reassuring. Tender sighed. Trying to move Storm would wake him. Best to just leave his arm there.

Tender closed his eyes again. Maybe it was because of the slowing rain or he was finally tired enough, but this time it was easier to calm and let sleep take him. His slumber was deep and dreamless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be multiple chapters for this one, as they all follow the same narrative and theme that is amusingly summarized by yours truly as Storm knowing -and getting- what he wants. 
> 
> My idea of Storm's character has evolved a lot, especially as I wrote this one. Storm is a lot more in control of this than I initially expected him to be. Like, that lion comparison? I don't know where that whole paragraph came from, but I LOVE it. That whole exchange, really. I'm so proud of it.  
> Also, Tender is a useless, oblivious gay. Bless his heart.


	2. and a bitter frost is filling up your bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which winter comes, but not the famous one of 1816. That'll come later.

Mister Tender knew something had to be done about their living conditions when he could see his breath in the loft of the Black Wagon. It was only November, but frost had started to appear during the night. Even if it quickly melted when the sun rose, there was enough of a chill to make things uncomfortable. Tender was already tired of feeling like an icicle and winter hadn’t even started. It didn’t help that in their undead states, their temperatures ran cooler than a normal human’s. 

Mister Storm was clearly suffering from the cold as well. He had started snatching furs from the pile next to the hammocks, layering them on top of himself while he slept. He would disappear underneath them until the sun rose, while Tender swayed in his hammock, huddled in his coat, and shivered. If asked about this strategy, Tender would give a vague reply of “toughing it out.” 

Naturally, though, once Storm started bugging him about blanketing himself in furs, Tender caved. His willpower was a thing of the past when it came to Mister Storm. (He had mostly made his peace with it.) The first night Cain had climbed up into the loft to find his companions bundled in their hammocks underneath countless furs, he had muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like “children these days.” As someone who had once spent a very unpleasant winter in Antarctica, a bit of frost was nothing. 

With Cain unwilling to listen to their whining, Storm and Tender made do. At least until mid December, when things _inside_ the wagon started freezing.

“We’re going to die like this,” Tender remarked as he followed Storm up into the loft one evening.

“A miserable way to go,” Storm agreed, even if they both knew they were immortal. Everything hanging in the loft swayed gently to the pace of the Nightmares, who marched on through the night like it was still summer. Cain, ever unflappable, was outside driving them wearing nothing but his normal coat and gloves. 

Storm lifted yet another pelt from the now sparse piling on the floor. It had dwindled to nothing but small skins from rabbits and the like. Storm frowned as he wondered how he might stuff a squirrel pelt into his hammock cocoon. 

“If you want to get in first, I can help,” Mister Tender offered. Storm looked to him. 

“There’s only so much we can do with the netting letting in the cold.”

With a sudden idea, or perhaps concession that their current cocoon plan was a poor one, Storm went over to his hammock and scooped up an armful of pelts. He staggered under the cumbersome weight of the furs, thudding back over to the original pile and dropping them upon it. 

“We’re being rather silly,” Storm announced, repeating the process with the remaining furs in his hammock. 

“I think we can blame Cain for that,” Tender demurred. Storm laughed once and made for the pelts in Tender’s hammock. 

“Storm?” Tender ventured. 

“Patience is a virtue, my dear.” In short order, his hammock was bare too and the fur pile was back to its original size. Tender wanted to ask again but held his tongue. 

“Boots off,” Storm chirped, taking off his own. 

“My toes aren’t frostbitten quite yet. We’ll just be amputating yours.”

Storm tittered. “Not anymore.” Once he was down to his socks, he burrowed under the furs. 

“Greedy,” Tender accused the wriggling, Storm sized lump. 

“Hardly!” Storm fired back, voice muffled. “Come join me. We can share warmth.” 

Tender blinked, then shrugged. He was eager to try just about any new strategy, even if he had felt like dying the last time they slept on the furs together. (They were already dead, anyways.) 

Tender untied his boots and sized up the fur pile. Storm had squirmed closer to the wall, giving him room. He blew out the lamp and knelt, lifting up some of the pelts. 

Storm’s eyes glittered from the shadows like a beast curled in its lair. Nowadays Tender was rather used to feeling like unwary prey around Storm, so he eased under the furs without hesitation. Storm hadn’t gone beneath all of them, so the floor under them was soft and a bit more forgiving than usual. It was already vastly warmer than the hammock would be. 

“Perfect,” Storm sighed, echoing his thoughts. Tender settled and got comfortable, trying not to flinch when his limbs grazed Storm’s. He wasn’t frightened, as the aforementioned prey metaphor might suggest, merely cautious. Storm was flighty at the best of times, and Tender didn’t want to risk anything that might turn their relationship strange. He valued his friendship too much. 

Oblivious or perhaps indifferent to the efforts Tender was trying to make, Storm shuffled closer and pressed his icy feet to Tender’s shins. Tender yelped. Even with socks they were freezing. 

“I don’t bite,” Storm told him. 

 _I beg to differ,_ Tender thought privately. 

“You’re cold,” he said instead. 

“That’s why we’re doing this. Come come, don’t make such a fuss.” Then Storm was insistently pressing even closer, aligning his body with his to maximize heat transfer. As Storm was too short to maintain eye contact, he contented himself with butting his head under Tender’s chin and pressing his face to the lapel of his coat. Tender was rigid as a board. All was silent except for the creaking of the Black Wagon’s wheels. Even with the layers of clothing between them, he could feel Storm’s warmth. The other man sighed, this time with comfort, and relaxed against the stiff line of Tender’s body. He didn’t say anything. If Tender inhaled through his nose, he got nothing but Storm’s scent. 

 _I’m going to die like this,_ Tender thought in an echo of his earlier comment. How naive he had been, back in the day when he thought it was agony to be a few inches away from a resting Storm. 

He _was_ warm, though. The combination of their contact and the furs beat the chill far better than his coat did. Storm had the right idea. 

Storm snuffled. Asleep, as far as Tender could tell. It was never a problem for him to go to sleep, even when they were this close. 

Was Tender the one making things weird? He was no expert on cold weather survival strategies, or casual intimacy between friends. Maybe cuddling was a thing men did during the winter. Storm was far more of a socialite than he was, he would know better. 

Tender would ask Cain, if not for the inevitable look on his face regardless of the answer. Best not to open that can of worms. Or admit that he and Storm were sleeping together. 

 _Sharing warmth_ , Tender quickly corrected himself. Slip of the tongue. Mental tongue. 

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Storm suddenly mumbled into the lapel of Tender’s jacket. Tender stiffened even more, if that was possible. 

“Thought you were asleep,” Tender hastily said by way of explanation. It was also a bit of an accusation, too. 

“I _would_ be if not for how obviously uncomfortable you are.” His tone was mild from sleepiness, so Tender couldn’t really gauge how annoyed he was. 

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Tender said. 

“A stiff corpse is more relaxed,” Storm muttered. 

“That’s your comparison? Really?”

Storm shrugged, unrepentant. “Cain is rubbing off on me.”

A lapse of silence. 

“I never married, so I’m not used to being close like this.”

“Close?” Storm mused. 

“Not that I think you’re a woman,” Tender clarified in a panicked rush. 

“I should think not,” Storm said, more amused than anything. Then he yawned, still completely at ease, and Tender thought that he was probably making a fool of himself. 

“Do people do this often?” He asked weakly, losing steam. 

“Does it matter?” Came Storm’s reply. 

“What?”

“I think consulting other people on our situation is pointless. They are not us.”

A simple logic. Tender could get behind it. He also didn’t notice that Storm hadn’t answered the question. 

Tender slowly raised his arm and draped it over Storm. Neither of them flinched. Nor when Tender splayed his hand on Storm’s upper back. 

“Go to sleep,” Storm chastised, smiling into Tender’s coat. “Stop overthinking.”

Put so plainly, it seemed like a far easier task. Tender closed his eyes and exhaled, finally letting his bones settle. Storm was warm and yielding against him, and now Tender fit into him perfectly. Like they were puzzle pieces finally slotting together. After that, sleep came sweet and easy. 

 

* * *

 

After letting the Nightmares loose, Cain entered the Black Wagon. It was just past midnight. No voices or lantern light came from the loft. After peeling off his gloves and stuffing them into his pockets, Cain hung his coat on a hook to let the frost on the tails thaw. His comfort in this particular chill came as a byproduct of context: America was hardly the worst cold he had endured. 

Cain went up the ladder and up into the loft. Being a more powerful version of the undead that his companions were, he could see in total darkness where they could not. Their hammocks were conspicuously empty, hanging still. The mystery was solved a moment later when Cain noticed the large, two person lump buried beneath the fur pile. It rose and fell slightly as it breathed. They were _cuddling_. It made Cain’s lip twitch with amusement. 

Now with a bit of a lighter mood, Cain unlaced his boots and fell into his hammock. He stared up at the ceiling, watching his breath in the cold air. 

It was about time those two got a move on. Cain was getting tired of waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tender this chapter: *gay panic*
> 
> 1\. Cain’s trip to Antarctica was something he had to cross off his Immortality Bucket List. Courtesy of the Spanish colonizers on the Falkland Islands, Cain got a lift due south to the northern tip of Antarctica. With the incentive of a lot of gold, the Spanish ship was to come back in a month’s time to pick him up after he had done some exploring. Naturally, the ship was late, so Cain ended up spending the rest of the autumn and the entire winter of that year there. As he was an undead immortal, he didn’t kick the bucket, but he did have to worry about bits of him freezing and falling off. So he spent the winter huddled among penguins, regretting all of the decisions since “am I my brother's keeper” that had led him to this point. The Spaniards returned in the spring and brought Cain back with them to civilization, even though they were pretty much convinced he was some sort of weird ice demon. (Cain never gave them the gold, either.)  
> And now you ask, “did you seriously just research the history of the Falkland Islands and spend way too much time writing this completely irrelevant footnote all because you wanted the image of Cain grumpily huddling with penguins?”  
> Yes. Yes I did. I pride myself on being a provider of niche content. 
> 
> 2\. The term “rigor mortis” was not coined until 1837, as far as my quick research can tell, so Storm merely says “stiff corpse.” Despite my countless other language anachronisms, at least I avoided that one. I like the mental image of Cain being super grim most of the time, so of course Storm and Tender would inadvertently pick up some of his more macabre stuff.


	3. don't the righteous fall quick?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a little nervous, a little tentative, but they get there in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one. I'm writing the next one, like, as you read this. Initially they were going to be one chapter together, but the mood shift was jarring. So here. New Year's themed.

The new year came and went without much attention. Cain had long since stopped caring, so Storm and Tender had a small celebration up in the loft while Cain drove the Nightmares. They were sitting on the furs, with some draped over their laps and shoulders to combat the chill. (At Storm’s insistence, they still slept under the furs together, but they had never actually attempted it outside of bedtime.)

“1815,” Storm remarked as he took a swig from the bottle of liquor they had saved for the occasion. It was hard stuff that made both of them grimace after each swallow. 

“Do you suppose we’ll eventually stop caring what year it is?” Storm wondered, offering Tender the bottle. He took it and drank.

“I guess,” Tender answered, then took another gulp. Storm gave him a dirty look.

“Don’t drink it all, scoundrel!”

Tender laughed. Storm maintained the stern expression, but his eyes were sparkling in the flickering lantern light.

“Cad,” Storm muttered, but he was quickly mollified when Tender passed the liquor back. 

They spent a while talking, until Storm drank the last dregs of the alcohol. If they were still human they would both be on the floor, but really all it had done was leave the pair buzzed. At some point they had slumped until they were leaning against each other. 

Storm lazily plonked the empty bottle somewhere next to the fur pile. Tender could only hope Cain didn’t trip on it later.

“Do you know what the Germans do on New Year’s?” Storm asked, unprompted.

“What?” 

“They believe that the person you spend the night with indicates how your year will turn out.”

Tender sniggered. “So my year will be...stormy?”

Storm giggled, but shook his head. Tender turned his head to the side to look at him. 

“No, it’s more like _how_ you spend the night with them. So if we started arguing, then 1815 would be a bad year.”

“Hm,” Tender replied. “I guess I’ll save picking a fight for tomorrow, then.”

Storm whacked his leg. Tender laughed. 

“To save yourself the trouble, _Mister Tender_ , you’re supposed to bring in the new year with a kiss.”

Tender almost choked on his own spit. He quickly cleared his throat to preserve some dignity. At least they were side by side, so Storm couldn’t see his face or the flush burning it scarlet. 

“Sounds...effective,” he said lamely.

“It’s that or a year of bad luck!” Storm chirped, staring at the lantern hanging on the wall. 

 _I’ll take it,_ Tender thought to himself. Because, frankly, he thought he was about to spontaneously combust. Kiss? Storm? Kiss _Storm?_

“I was never very superstitious,” Tender deflected, because he was fairly certain an offer was on the table and he had no idea what to do with it. 

“Oh? Well, I am.” It was said casually enough. Funny, they had been travelling for almost a year now and this was the first Tender was hearing about it.

“Then I guess we have to,” Tender blurted, tongue loose from the alcohol. 

“I guess so,” Storm replied, too quickly.

Silence. The creaking of the Black Wagon’s wheels as they rolled on into the unknown. Storm unbent his knee, making a soft rustle on the fur as he did so. Tender had a weird feeling in his stomach, and it wasn’t from the liquor. 

“ _You’re_ making it weird,” Storm suddenly insisted, as if they were debating that fact. Tender was now less than one hundred percent certain that Storm couldn’t read his mind. Cain wasn’t teaching him magic, was he?

Storm jerked fully upright, turning slightly to face him. Tender searched his face, finding a wild, bright intensity there. 

“You _are_ ,” Storm accused, and then he was kissing him. It wasn’t a peck, either. His lips were yielding against Tender’s, melding into them while taking what he wanted. (He wanted this?) His fingers curled in the lapels of his coat, like claws that had finally sunk into their prey. 

Storm tasted like alcohol. When had Tender’s hand found Storm’s hair? The curls were soft, if unkempt tonight. Was he dreaming? Surely he must be dreaming.

Storm broke away, breathing hard. Tender could only gape at him, stunned, as his fingers stiffly uncurled from his jacket. Tender noticed his hands had a tremble to them.

“There,” Storm concluded, voice unsteady. “Now we can argue.”

Tender stared for a moment before coughing. “I think we should go to sleep.”

“Good plan,” Storm agreed immediately. 

Somehow feeling like he was running away without getting up, Tender leaned over to the lantern and swiftly blew the flame out. They settled under the furs in record time, bodies carefully not touching.  

It took a long while for either of them to do anything more than stare at the ceiling and replay the kiss over and over in their minds. Sleep was far fetched, and when it eventually came, it was fitful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @the germans thanks for the smoochies tradition


End file.
